Part 46 (1/2)
”Aye, it does,” he'd agreed.
She was thinking of it now, he knew, and a moment later was proven right when she said quietly, ”A week along is all I was. Ofttimes, one never even knows so soon.”
”No.” He kissed the top of her head again, and rubbed his palm over her upper arms, warming her. ”We will have children, Senna.”
She smiled. ”You will give me children.”
He paused. ”I'm fairly certain I'm supposed to say that to ye, ye, la.s.s.” la.s.s.”
”But,” she went on, lost in thought, ”if I do not quicken right away, that will do for now. I must get my sheep over to Ireland, and the king has told me of your astonis.h.i.+ng weavers. I believe we can gain them franchise in the towns. But, before all, I must meet with the mayor of the wool staple in Dublin.”
”Och, well, the woolly mayor it is, then,” he said lightly.
She narrowed her eyes. ”Therefore I do not understand why you wish me to learn the names of the poets-the file? file?” She lifted an eyebrow to question if she was p.r.o.nouncing the term correctly. He shook his head. She narrowed her eyes again. ”Why must I know the names of poets from so long ago?”
”Because it matters,” he said. And he said it in such a simple, calm way, she believed him.
He was including her in every aspect of his life, his heritage and his future, sharing everything with her, accepting her involvement as natural. Desired. Which was, Senna realized, what she'd wanted all along: to be cherished, as she was.
In return, she was willing to offer much, including attempting to learn the names of centuries-dead poets. Or the entire Irish language. It was a beautiful tongue, but perilous, she realized with trepidation as she waded in to lessons each afternoon. Finian was a patient teacher. She tried to be a patient student. Her fingers had healed. Pentony was dead.
”I hope he did right by himself,” she murmured, her gaze drifting down the sloping hill below them. ”I do not like to think of him suffering anymore.”
In part, she wished that because if Pentony was not suffering anymore, despite his sins, then perhaps Finian's mother was not either. And one day, that thought might bring Finian peace.
He stood near her, towering to his full rangy height. Black, windswept hair fell across his shoulders, and he was as magnificent to her now as when she'd first laid eyes on him.
”You sent a trunkful of coin to his illegitimate child in England, didn't you?” she said abruptly.
He started shaking his head, but she held up her hand.
”I know you did. I heard Alane speaking of it.”
He shrugged. ”Ye'll believe what ye want, Senna. Ye always do. I've given up trying to change ye.”
”You never began.” Her breath caught in her throat. ”You are a good man, Finian O'Melaghlin.”
”And ye,” he whispered close to her ear, ”are the most beautiful woman I ever did see.”
She feigned shock. ”You say nothing of my goodness.”
”Aye, for I've nothing good to say of it.”
She laughed as he pulled her back into his embrace and they both looked out over the walls. He breathed into her hair as the chilled winds swept up from the hills below.
”Yer father asked me for something, Senna,” he said quietly a moment later. ”Before he died.”
She looked over her shoulder. ”Indeed? What was that?”
”To help save Scotland.”
She looked away sharply. ”You owe my father naught.”
He turned her by the shoulders and peered down with those dark, perceptive eyes. ”Just so. This is not a matter of a debt or a duty. Ye taught me that much.”
She nodded solemnly. ”I see. Will the king allow it?”
He nodded gravely. ”We've already spoken of it.”
”But I thought-You were to be...” Her words trailed off.
”I'll never be king here, Senna. I made my choice.”
She stared at the castle behind him, then forced herself to meet his eyes. ”A choice between a woman and a kings.h.i.+p. Some would say 'twas an easy choice.”
”Oh, aye. Simple enough for me.” He ran his palm over the side of her head. ”I suppose ye'll have to make yer choice now, Senna, knowing I'm not to be a king after all.”
She pursed her lips, as if considering the matter. ”I have always heard 'tis best to keep royalty at a distance.”
”Have ye?”
”You, I shall keep close.”
He slid his hand to the back of her head and pulled her forward. ”Will ye, now?”
She rested her arms around his shoulders. ”I made my choice in a stinking old prison. I'm fairly certain you were there. Do you not recall?”
He smiled faintly, but, still cupping the back of her head, looked down into the valley below. ”A prison is a prison. Free air has a different odor. I've seen men in cellars make vile, regretful choices.”
She entwined her fingers behind his neck. ”But, Finian, what you saw was a woman woman in a cellar.” in a cellar.”
His blue gaze came back down, his smile deepending as his eyes searched hers. ”Well now, that is so. And she was a fair staggering thing.”
She disentwined her fingers to wave her hand, her face flus.h.i.+ng. ”Enough of that.”
”Nay, not enough.” He ran his hand down her neck to her shoulders in a manner she knew far too well.
”Cease,” she protested, but she didn't mean it, and he knew. He caressed her shoulders in deep, circular motions, ma.s.saging. A prelude.
She bent her head to the side and closed her eyes, but still said sternly, ”You shall not be let off so easily. We were speaking of plans. Instead of being a king now, you shall be a spy?”
”Tend toward calling me a diplomat when we travel. It'll sound less treasonous if anyone asks.”
She opened her eyes, smiling widely. ”I am to come with you.”
He c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. ”For certes.” He ran his lips over her cheek, then slid them down to her jaw. ”I've been looking for ye my whole life, la.s.s. Dye-witch or no, I'm not letting ye go. Kings can want ye; I have got ye.”